


Potterella

by Nimori



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-03
Updated: 2010-04-03
Packaged: 2017-10-08 16:54:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/77604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nimori/pseuds/Nimori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time there was a Dark Lord, a king, a queen, a prince, a fairy godfather, a royal footman, a 1948 Vincent Black Lightning, and a boy called Potterella, and they all lived happily ever after. Except the Dark Lord. 'Cause he dies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Potterella

Once upon a time in the tiny kingdom of Hogsland, there lived a wizard prince called James. The prince's father, the King, wished for his son to marry and father heirs, which was (as most elderly Kings will agree) all part of the burden of ruling a kingdom, and had nothing at all to do with wanting grandchildren.

James agreed to wed straight away (perhaps because he was an obedient son but, as we will soon see that James was not very obedient at all, more likely because he was already in love with his prospective bride). He chose the cleverest, most beautiful witch of their age to be his wife, and in due time they had a son, and they loved him.

Now, all was not well in this wizarding kingdom. One day, not long after the baby prince's first birthday, an evil Dark Lord came to the castle to kill the royal family. The King and queen escaped (for the Dark Lord had mistakenly scheduled the attack during their annual holiday in Majorca), but the prince and princess were caught in the palace.

The prince (having, as they said at the time, a large sword and little sense) joined the fight at once, but one of the prince's companions had betrayed them to the Dark Lord, and the enemy came upon the princess and the babe unguarded (or as good as, seeing as how none of the twenty men were major characters and were therefore more likely to die than be heroes). It fell to the princess to save her son's life and, being the cleverest witch of her age but having no time at all to visit the library, she quickly cast a spell -- a spell so powerful it required nothing less than the sacrifice of her life.

This powerful spell went terribly awry (or perhaps not; there was no princess left to ask exactly what she had intended), and when the Dark Lord was defeated, the princess lay dead and the baby had vanished entirely. All of Hogsland went into mourning, and the heartbroken prince vowed never to take another wife.

 

*****

In another part of the kingdom altogether, there lived an extraordinarily normal husband and wife by the names of Mr and Mrs Dursley. Mr and Mrs Dursley had a son who was a little over a year old, who was called Dudley. Dudley was a bit less extraordinarily normal in that he was nearly as wide as he was high, and had a voice twice as loud as most other children his age.

Even though they lived in a wizarding kingdom, the Dursleys didn't hold much truck with magic. Not being magical folk themselves, they much preferred the non-wizarding way of doing things, and tried their hardest to ignore the magical goings-on of the kingdom.

And their hardest was quite impressive as Mrs Dursley had a sister who was a witch, and in the handful of years since they last spoke, the Dursleys had managed to forget about her entirely.

When Mr Dursley heard the news about the tragedy in the royal family, he merely shook his head until his double chin (wedged as it was between his first chin and his chest) wobbled. "What nonsense," he said to himself. "Surely they deserved what they got for mucking about with magic and pretending to be better then normal folk." And with that pronouncement, he rattled his newspaper and went back to his normal, magic-free life.

So it was a decidedly unpleasant shock when Mr Dursley returned home to find that someone had left a changeling on their doorstep.

*****

Mr and Mrs Dursley (whom we shall now call Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia) lived with their son in a nice, normal house at number four, Privet Drive. In that house there also lived a boy by the name of Potterella. More specifically, he lived in the cupboard under the stairs, which was quite an unusual place for a boy in a normal house like the Dursleys'.

He was called Potterella because it had been his job, for as long as he could remember, to scrub out the pots after Aunt Petunia cooked the meals. It was also his job to do the laundry, scrub the floors, make the beds, sweep the hearth, clean the bath, dust the mantle, weed the garden, mend the clothes, polish the furniture, and do the marketing, but all that would have made much too long a name, and Potterella was already a long name to shout when the Dursleys wanted something.

Potterella's days went something like this:

He woke up, and lay in the dark until Uncle Vernon let him out of his cupboard. He went to the market to buy fresh breakfast foods; if breakfast that day was something Aunt Petunia trusted him to make, he made it, and if not, he helped her make it and then cleaned up while the Dursleys ate. He could have anything left in the pots for his breakfast (but that was never much since Dudley seemed unsatisfied with being as wide as he was tall, and wanted to be wider).

Next Potterella cleaned the house, starting from the top floor and working his way down to the cellar. If he finished before noon, he was allowed to help with lunch and its possibility of leftovers. If he wasn't finished (which was always) he went without.

Afternoons he spent tending the garden and performing small tasks like mending and laundry and tarring the roof. Then came supper, which he was fed unless he did something terribly wrong (which was often) and after that he served tea to the Dursleys and any guests they might have, and then he was allowed to bathe before Uncle Vernon locked him in his cupboard for the night. And throughout all this, Potterella had to stop to fetch and carry for Dudley whenever he wanted something (which was every ten minutes or so).

At night, when everyone else was asleep, Potterella would lay in his cupboard and wonder about things he didn't have time to wonder about during the day. Like his parents (for surely he must have had a mother and father, and not, as Uncle Vernon claimed, been left on the doorstep by goblins) and where they were and why they had left him at number four, Privet Drive. Aunt Petunia would never answer his questions, and Uncle Vernon would shout the goblin story if he overheard Potterella asking, lecture him on the unnaturalness of magic, and then lock him in his cupboard.

Potterella had only one clue to his origins, and that was also his only possession: a golden ring with a red stone (surely coloured glass in a brass setting, for Potterella could never own anything so grand as real jewellery). The ring seemed as though it were magic, for as he grew, it changed to fit his finger. The Dursleys didn't like the ring much (and Potterella did not know this, but they had tried to take it off his finger when he was a babe, and had got a Nasty Shock Indeed) and one reason they kept his hands dirty as much as possible was so they didn't have to see it twinkling on his finger.

The other reason, of course, was that then they didn't have to do for themselves.

"Potterella! Watch the bacon," said Aunt Petunia. "I have to arrange Duddy's birthday presents just so. Everything must be perfect for his special day."

Potterella took the pan from Aunt Petunia. If he had a birthday of his own (and surely he must, unless he really had been left by goblins), he didn't know the date. About midsummer the Dursleys would add another year to his age, which this year would be sixteen, but Potterella never had gifts or a cake or a party.

Today, the Dursleys were taking Dudley to the non-magical zoo. Potterella would have much preferred the circus, but it was full of magic and the Dursleys would never allow it. The zoo only had normal animals in normal displays made of normal iron fences and glass walls, but it didn't matter anyway as Potterella wasn't to go.

"You could pretend I'm your footman," Potterella said. He'd never been to the zoo before, and he wanted to see the animals. Even more than that, it was hot and the Dursleys locked him in his cupboard when they were away, in case he decided to steal the silver. "You've always wanted a footman."

Uncle Vernon thought about this, and finally consented to let Potterella dress in his finest clothes (which weren't very fine at all but they would have to do), and ride to the zoo on the back of the family carriage. Once there they didn't want to leave him with the carriage, which was new, and so Potterella pretended to be their servant, which wasn't too far from the truth barring that servants were paid for their work.

Dudley ran from exhibit to exhibit, complaining loudly if the animals were not entertaining enough. As the day was quite hot, most of the animals preferred sleeping over being entertaining, so Dudley did a lot of complaining. Potterella walked behind, carrying the gifts the Dursleys bought for Dudley and trying to look as self-important as some of the other servants did. Putting his nose that high meant he couldn't see over the giant stuffed gorilla Dudley had wanted.

"You might watch where you're going," someone said as Potterella stumbled against a wall. The wall turned out to be the glass of case containing a large green python. No one else stood in earshot.

"I beg your pardon," Potterella said to the snake, who was draped lazily over a branch. The snake's head came up at once.

"Ah, a civilized visitor at last!" said the snake. "I can't tell you how dull it is, watching your kind parade by day after day, not an intelligent conversationalist in the lot. Who's your team for the quidditch finals then?"

Potterella had never heard of quidditch, and told the snake so, but in the next instance he felt Uncle Vernon's shadow fall on him, and looked back to see the Dursleys glowering at him.

If the Dursleys had paid more attention to magic they might have known that the ability to speak to serpents ran in families, and that there was only one family in Hogsland known to produce Parselmouths. If they had known this, our story might have turned out differently, but they didn't, and so Uncle Vernon only grabbed Potterella by the ear and dragged him back to the carriage, shouting all the way. Aunt Petunia followed, consoling Dudley, who was sobbing about his ruined birthday.

It was at the exit that they saw the advertisement for the ball.

*****

You see, while Potterella had been growing up scrubbing pans and sweeping floors, the King had been fretting more and more over the succession. His only son was getting older and showing no signs of wanting to remarry, and most importantly, father another heir.

"Now, James," said the King. "You know the kingdom needs a stable succession. What if something were to happen to you? The queen and I are too old to have more children."

"I don't wish to remarry," said the prince. "No one could replace Lily in my heart."

"You haven't given anyone else a chance. If only you would converse at meals, laugh and dance, you might find your heart is not the icy fortress you proclaim."

"Oh, you must hold a ball," said the queen, clapping her hands. "It's been so long, and Princess Lily loved them so."

"A ball," said the King. "Yes, and you shall marry one of the guests. I don't care which. Marry the scullery maid if she attends, but you're to be wed by midwinter, and that is my final decree on the matter."

The prince got a very unpleasant look on his face. "Very well, Father. I shall hold a ball. And I shall, with your blessing, marry one of the guests."

*****

"Mummy!" Dudley cried, pointing at the large and brightly coloured sign. His tears vanished as quickly as they had appeared. "Mummy, the prince is having an autumn ball! I want to go, Mummy!"

"Now, Dudley," said Uncle Vernon, without looking around, still gripping Potterella's ear, "you know we don't have any truck with wizards. Going about doing magic, thinking they're better than normal folk..."

"But Daddy, it says the ball is open to wizards and muggles alike. And that the prince is going to wed one of the guests. He might pick me, and I don't care if he does magic, I want to live in a castle and have footmen and diamond tiaras and anything at all I want to eat."

"Don't be foolish, Duddykins," said Aunt Petunia. "The prince will marry a maiden."

"But then why," Potterella spoke up, forgetting for a moment that the Dursleys would not welcome his opinion, "does it say only men are invited?"

*****

"Your father," said Lupin, who had been James's footman since they were both quite young, and could get away with saying such things to a prince, "is going to murder you."

"He can't," said the prince in his smuggest voice. "Mum's too old to have another son."

"And if the King makes you marry a man for spite?"

"Then I shall." The smugness faded away, and Lupin had to strain to hear the rest: "But I will never take another wife."

*****

Over the next few months, number four, Privet Drive, flew into a tizzy of preparations for the royal ball. Dudley required dress robes, of course, for he could not attend a wizard ball in his muggle suit and expect the prince to notice him. And then he needed new dress robes because the first set mysteriously shrunk around the middle.

The summer passed slowly for Potterella. He sewed and sewed and sewed, for not only did Dudley's waistline keep changing, so did his mind. First nothing would do but red, then it turned out that cool colours were the expected fashion that autumn, and so the robes had to be dyed navy. He wanted belled sleeves, and then had Potterella take them in, only to demand they be let out again a week later. And then he finally admitted blue did not suit his complexion, but the fabric was weak from all the dyes and alterations and the whole lot had to be done over in green.

Potterella bore all of this with extra patience. He didn't complain no matter how many times Dudley changed his mind, or how many shoes he threw at Potterella's head.

At the beginning of October, a mere month away from the ball, Potterella gathered his nerve and assured himself that his best behaviour must count for something, and quietly asked if he might also attend the ball.

"You?" said Uncle Vernon in a nasty voice. "You can't possibly think the prince would even look at you."

"Well, no," said Potterella, "but the advertisement said every Hoglandish male over sixteen was invited, and I _would_ enjoy seeing the palace. And I'm sure Dudley will look very fine standing next to me," he added quickly. "Even finer than he usually does. Besides, if I go both you and Aunt Petunia can accompany Dudley to the palace as neither of you will have to stay home with me."

Uncle Vernon stroked his moustache (he thought the gesture made him look as though he were pondering very intelligent thoughts, but really it only made the bristles stick out). "All right, boy. _If_ you finish all your chores, and _if_ you find something to wear that won't embarrass any decent folk standing near you, you may go to the ball. Petunia will even be your chaperone."

"Oh, thank you, Uncle!" cried Potterella. "I'll do all my chores as you ask, and I won't embarrass you, I swear it."

Uncle Vernon only grunted. "See that you don't."

*****

Potterella's workload seemed to triple once he desperately needed his few minutes of spare time to sew his own robes. Aunt Petunia now woke him at four in the morning to squeeze in an hour of work on Dudley's robes before the markets opened, and it was often past midnight before Potterella could collapse into his cupboard at night.

Tired as he was he could hardly sleep for the fantasy that grew each night. He would arrive at the ball and the prince would ignore him (as surely as he would ignore Dudley too), but that was all right because at the ball were two far more important people: Potterella's mother and father.

They would recognize him at once, of course, and rush over to hug and kiss him, and maybe they would be powerful wizards and maybe they would be rich muggles, and maybe they would be just as normal as the Dursleys, but they would love Potterella like Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon loved Dudley.

By the second week of this, he had to put his fantasy away, for even though he had never hated his life before, escaping it -- even briefly, even in his head -- made his mornings too painful.

In his rare moments of rest between chores and errands, Potterella investigated the broken and unwanted items in Dudley's second bedroom. Aunt Petunia was almost pleased when Potterella suggested he clean the room to make way for the birthday presents Dudley had already broken, and came very close to praising his initiative. Dudley was so distracted with learning to waltz that he even agreed to throw out a few items. Potterella scavenged these before taking them to the trash, and came away with a nightshirt Dudley had outgrown when he was nine, a single dark blue curtain with a matching tie-back, a pair of never-worn slippers, and a bottle of gold paint from a model ship Dudley had never built.

The week before the ball Potterella had no sleep, between Dudley's demands and the hour or so he could spend sewing his own clothes before his candle burned out. By the evening before the ball, Dudley had a splendid robe of green and gold, with fine embroidery in silver, and Potterella had a white robe with a blue hem and wide sleeves of white and blue stripes, a blue tie-back sash, and gold slippers that might pass for the type of soft-soled shoes wizarding folk wore.

Dudley swept down the stairs (he thought himself very grand, but truthfully even Potterella's skill with the needle could not disguise his waddle), but the moment he saw Potterella waiting quietly behind Aunt Petunia and looking fetching in a plain sort of way, his face scrunched up and turned red.

"But those are MY curtains!" Dudley shouted. "And that's MY nightshirt! And those are MY slippers!"

"You didn't want them!" Potterella cried. "You threw them away!"

But Dudley charged over, punching and scratching, and tore away the sash and ripped the sleeves from Potterella's robe and pushed Potterella into the sooty fireplace.

"Now, Dudley," said Aunt Petunia. "You don't want to get your robes dirty. Come along or we'll be late."

"Just as well," said Uncle Vernon. "We don't rightly know that he's sixteen anyway. Imagine how embarrassing it would be if they checked with their magic and he wasn't!"

"You're leaving me here?" asked Potterella. All of his fantasies of dark-haired green-eyed parents unraveled, leaving a hole he hadn't wanted to admit was there.

"The boy has a point," said Aunt Petunia. "But he can't go like that, and we can't lock him in the cupboard so long -- the prince might wish to dance with Dudley the whole night."

And so they put him out in the garden, in his ruined robes, and locked the door before they summoned a carriage much fancier than their own to take them to the palace. The dewy grass wet the paint on Potterella's slippers, and left streaks of gold on the grass, twinkling under the starlight.

*****

Contrary to the footman's prediction, the King did not murder the prince. He shouted a lot, but the queen thought it very funny and clever of the prince, and only looked at the King over her square-rimmed glasses and tartly informed him he had brought the situation upon himself.

The King eventually saw the humour and cleverness and the twinkle came back to his eye, but he refused to be made the fool before the entire kingdom. The prince _would_ marry one of his guests -- be it scullery maid or stable boy.

"But what of an heir?" asked the prince. He had not quite believed his father would match his bluff, and his footman's ill-concealed amusement was not helping his temper. "I thought this whole charade was so that I may perpetuate the royal blood."

"Oh, that," said the King, in a dark and foreboding voice. "I've found a spell. You and your spouse _will_ be having children, one way or another."

The prince turned very pale, and wondered if it was too late to elope with the scullery maid after all.

*****

Anyone who's ever tried very hard not to cry when they're upset will know how much concentration this takes, so Potterella may be forgiven for not hearing the racket until it was atop him.

He looked up just in time to catch a brief glimpse of the undersides of complicated machinery before a blast of sooty exhaust caught him in the face. He coughed and scrubbed at his eyes, and when the air cleared a very large, very black motorcycle stood idling amidst the cabbages.

The motorcycle had a tall man on its back. The tall man wore leather and denim and sunglasses, even though it was night, and had a three-day beard. A lit Silk Cut dangled on his lower lip.

"Who are you?" asked Potterella.

"I'm your fairy godfather," the man said, and blew a smoke ring. "Let's get you tarted up for the ball."

Potterella could only stare. His fairy godfather had quite a lot of tattoos. He also had a lot of sparkly dust in his dark hair, and once he propped the sunglasses atop his head, Potterella saw that his eyes were thickly lined with black kohl.

He noticed Potterella's gaze, and grinned, fag end bobbing. "Let's start with the good shit," he said, and produced an eyeliner pencil. "We want the prince to notice your eyes under all that fucking hair."

Potterella touched his perpetually messy hair and regarded the eyeliner with a great deal of doubt. "Isn't that for girls?"

"Listen, kiddo. I broke out of fucking prison tonight in order to fulfill my fairy-godfatherly duties, so you're going to wear the goddamn eyeliner to the ball, and you're going to have a fucking good time. And a good time fucking, if you get the chance. All right?"

Potterella shrank back. "All right."

"Fan-fucking-tastic. Look up and don't blink."

The kohl was slick and cool going on, and just the weight of it made Potterella feel exotic and attractive. "Do you think you can fix my robe?" he asked as his fairy godfather lined his other eye.

"Fuck that shit. Household linen went out last century. I'm going to turn you into sex on legs." He flicked his wand, and Potterella's torn nightshirt melted into a red silk robe, open to the navel and cinched with a jewelled gold belt. Another flick transfigured his soggy gold slippers into black leather boots. All the soot from fireplace and motorcycle had vanished.

His godfather stepped back and wolf-whistled. "Damn, you are one sexy bitch."

"Really?" Potterella spun in a circle. He'd never thought of himself as sexy before.

"I'd nail you."

Potterella blushed.

"Stop fucking blushing. And suck in your cheeks a bit. More pout. Maybe some lipstick--"

"No! Er, the eyeliner's quite enough. Thank you."

"Fine." Potterella's fairy godfather narrowed his eyes, and a sideways flick changed the robe's sleeves into long black fingerless gloves. "There. You'd give a goddamn statue a hard-on now." He smirked and took another drag from his cigarette. "Now you just need transportation. Nothing says hot shit like a flying motorcycle... but before I let you run off on a bike, you have to promise to be back by midnight."

"But that's not fair!" Potterella cried. "I never get to go anywhere. Why can't I stay out later?"

"I fucked up on the authority figure front, but now that I'm here I have to, y'know, set boundaries and shit."

"But why midnight?" Potterella asked, and his fairy godfather shrugged.

"What the hell do I know about raising teenagers? It sounds like a decent hour." Potterella's godfather flicked his cigarette away onto the Dursleys' lawn. "And just so you don't think you can get away with any shit with me just because I'm the coolest fairy godfather ever, all the spells are set to end at the twelfth stroke... of the clock." He winked at Potterella.

Potterella blushed, then remembered to suck and pout instead.

"That's my fairy godson!"

Potterella flung his arms around his godfather, kissed his stubbly sparkly cheek, and reached for the motorcycle.

"Whoa!" His godfather slapped his hand away from the handles. "No one but me touches Consuela -- least of all a little tart who only has his learner's permit." He drew his wand, and aimed it at the jack-o-lantern on the Dursleys' back stoop. "Bibbety-bobbity-boo!"

Nothing happened.

"Are you sure that's a real spell?" asked Potterella.

His fairy godfather muttered under his breath (and Potterella was certain he heard the word 'smartarse'), and flicked his wand again, and transfigured the pumpkin into a 1948 Vincent Black Lightning.

"Best goddamn bike in the world, kiddo. Only thirty-one of 'em ever built."

Potterella made a suitably impressed noise in the back of his throat, but his fairy godfather scowled as though suitably impressed wasn't enough for a 1948 Vincent Black Lightning.

"Off you go then. Have a good time, and don't do anything I wouldn't do or fuck anyone I wouldn't fuck. Which isn't much. Or many. So do whatever the hell you want, but try to get one dance with the prince, eh? And don't forget to show him your pretty green eyes."

Potterella straddled the Lightning, and promptly discovered the thrill of having something big and solid and vibrating between his legs. For a moment he was tempted to skip the ball in favour of a long flight across the kingdom, but although the prince would not care about Potterella's green eyes, his parents might.

One last flick of the wand, and Potterella's gold and red-glass ring, dull and tarnished all these years, shone like it was new and real. "Thank you, Fairy Godfather!" Potterella called, and revved the engine.

*****

Castle Hogwarts shone with all kinds of magical lights: ones that flashed, ones that spun, ones that changed colours, and ones that floated overhead and fizzed sparks onto the guests below. Half the population of Hogsland had shown up, and it was impossible to get more than a few feet in any direction before meeting someone new.

Potterella wound through the crowd outside the gates, dismay growing more and more bitter on his tongue. How were his parents supposed to recognize him amid all the distractions, the bright colours, the hundreds -- perhaps thousands -- of boys his age?

Still, he had let hope in, and now it clung tenaciously, rooted too deeply to evict. Perhaps later, when he was in his cupboard among the spiders, he would stamp out the last tendrils, but for now he determined that if he could not find his parents tonight, at least he would eat well and enjoy the dancing. He threw back his shoulders and marched up to the gate.

Only to be told that anyone under eighteen must have a chaperone to be admitted. He blinked the sudden sting in his eyes, but before he could shuffle off and let by the queue that had formed behind him, he felt an arm over his shoulders and smelled leather and engine oil and wet dog.

"Sorry I'm late," said Potterella's godfather. "Had to make myself beautiful. Did a fabulous fucking job of it, too."

Potterella gaped up at him. His fairy godfather looked more than beautiful; he looked like a different man. His long black hair was now shorter and blond and fell in his eyes -- which had gone from grey to hazel. He wore something black and outlandish that showed more skin than it covered, and managed to look like a great nobleman and a street whore at the same time.

The guards grumbled, but waved them in.

"How did you do that?" Potterella asked as they walked up the path, glitter from a passing lamp dusting their heads. "And why is your hair that colour?"

"Oh, it's just magic." His godfather shrugged and looked away, at the gleaming boats that bobbed on the lake, heavy with guests. "I just thought it was time for a change is all. Why don't you head off and dance for a while? I promise I won't embarrass the shit out of you in front of anyone hot."

"All right." Potterella bit his lip. "Will you do something for me? If you see anyone about your age with really bright green eyes, tell me?"

His godfather looked sad for a moment. "I will." He pulled Potterella close and whispered, "You've got a great fucking arse. Use it wisely, my godson."

Potterella blushed all the way to the ball room.

*****

The prince's doubts had tripled by the time the guards let in the first guests, some of whom had been camped outside the gates since the day before. His father was entirely too smug about the matter, and it made him nervous.

The kingdom had turned out its finest men, magical and muggle, and the prince found his thoughts taking paths he only traveled in dreams and rare times of quiet reflection and less-rare drunken honesty. _Perhaps I could_, he thought as he watched the men waltz together in their finery and send him coy glances over their partners' shoulders. He'd loved his wife from the moment he saw her, and that love had always shouted down any thought of another.

It still did, and he wore a small frown while he circulated, greeting those he must for propriety. He had not refused to remarry to be obstinate, but it appeared he no longer had the luxury of following his heart.

He considered what he would want in a mate, if he must take one, besides love. Intelligence and wit, he supposed as he was introduced to the son of Baron So-and-so (who had neither, and was spotty besides). Reasonable looks, as he shouldn't like to dine across from someone unpleasant to look at day after day. Able to appreciate quiet. Clean.

He sighed, feeling that cleanliness was an absurdly basic requirement. His entire list was basic. Why then, could he find no one in a crowd of thousands that appealed?

At least some of the citizens had made their own matches, disliking their chances with the prince perhaps. A circle had been forming around one such couple, the dancers more interested in each other than in a prince so many were vying for. James drew closer, recognizing the eldest son of Weasley, one of the King's advisors. His partner was a dark-haired boy, ridiculously young, for the prince had not planned the ball for any reason beyond thumbing his nose at his father.

But the boy.

The boy had Lily's eyes.

As if under the Imperius curse, will sapped until his body was a puppet, the prince moved into the circle made by the dancers' energy. He tapped Weasley's shoulder.

"May I cut in?"

The beginnings of an irritable glare died when the man saw who had asked. He bowed and stepped back, leaving the red-clad boy -- the boy who reminded him so much of Lily that for the first time in fifteen years he heard past his heart mourning her -- to the prince's mercy.

*****

True to his godfather's word, Potterella escaped the embarrassing fussing and, well, _pimping_ many of the younger guests suffered through. Eager parents had dragged many a reluctant adolescent son to the ball, and there were a good number of sulky glares among all the preening and fawning.

One of the sulky ones brightened at seeing Potterella, and without a by-your-leave, grabbed his hand and dragged him onto the dance floor. He had expected more in the way of manners at the palace, but his new partner was friendly, and quite attractive with his long red hair and daring grin. He didn't expect anything fancy or dignified from Potterella, but grabbed him and swung him around.

Potterella had never had so much fun, but it all came whirling to a halt as someone cut in. His heart leapt, for he fully expected a tearful parent's embrace, and he couldn't help but be disappointed that it was only the prince.

_Only the prince!_

He hastily shoved aside his silly fantasy about parents and bowed, feeling uncharitable at his own disappointment. Everyone at the ball must envy him! And now that the reality faced him, he envied himself as well. The prince was a handsome man, graceful as he took Potterella's hand, fingers firm and warm against his own, and lead him through the first steps.

Potterella had had almost no time to practice dancing, and certainly had never practiced with a partner. He hadn't worried too much, for his last partner had known the steps and he hadn't been aware of their growing audience until the prince cut in. All of the natural grace that had carried Potterella through thus far deserted him. His limbs were suddenly too long, and the joints were all in the wrong places. The prince knew how to compensate though, and stayed out from under Potterella's feet, no matter how far out of position they landed, which only made him blush harder.

_Stop blushing. Suck in your cheeks. Pout a little._

Potterella tried his godfather's advice, but the prince seemed more amused than enchanted, so he gave it up and went back to blushing.

"You're lovely when you blush."

"I'm lovelier when I don't, thanks," Potterella retorted without thinking. "I mean..." The prince laughed. "Perhaps I ought to flee with my dignity intact."

"Don't you dare," said the prince. "We haven't finished this dance."

"I would have thought that a good thing. I'm sure you're unused to your partners inventing their own steps."

"Creativity is a virtue."

"Fumbling around," Potterella said, "not knowing what I'm doing--"

"--but doing it anyway, and doing it well, in awe of luck and half drunk on your own brazenness? That makes two of us." The prince pulled him closer, leaving Potterella less room for his wayward feet and weakening his knees for other reasons, but it didn't matter because the prince was the only thing keeping him upright anyway.

This -- even if the prince moved on without a backwards glance, even if Potterella didn't meet a single green-eyed person at the ball -- he would remember for the rest of his life.

The prince didn't move on however, and danced the next song with Potterella, and the next, and the next, half the kingdom watching on with growing disappointment, jealousy, amusement or knowing smiles.

"Walk with me," the prince murmured as the song ended. "Down to the lake, and then the gardens."

Potterella let the prince take his arm and lead him outside, where the air was cooler but still enchanted warm for late October. A number of the more curious or hopeful guests followed, but the lakeshore was colder and muddy and few of them wore boots. The crowd thinned as they passed the docks and their swaying brightly lit boats, where some of the guests who only attended out of duty had gone to escape.

The magical lights thinned as they walked, speaking softly, only the most determined following them still. Three tentacles rose and set in the water in a cartwheeling salute as they passed. Arm-in-arm had turned to hand-in-hand somewhere, and Potterella's heart pounded. When they reached the last lamp, they were alone.

"What is it about you?" The prince breathed into Potterella's hair as if he hoped to inhale him. "How is it you make me forget when no one else does?"

"The clothes perhaps," Potterella said, pulling the gap in his robes closed. It was cold this far from the castle.

"Not the clothes." The prince tugged his hand away and the robe fell open to the waist again. He slipped a warm hand inside, curving over Potterella's belly; the pleasurable shock made him gasp and the prince groan. "You have such beautiful eyes."

"Really?" Two people had told him so in the last few hours, which was more compliments than he'd had in his whole life. It was no wonder Potterella wanted nothing more than to lean against the prince and let him do as he wished. "You're flattering me. I like it." He looked up, but the shadows blurred the prince's expression. "I don't know if it's because of that, or because you're... well, you, but you make me lightheaded."

"Perhaps you want to kiss me," said the prince, and he moved a bit closer. His hand shifted with him, sliding up to Potterella's ribs.

"Perhaps." Potterella gave the idea due consideration. "I think I do. Anyway, the thought of it is making my knees wobbly."

The prince laughed and cupped his face, and then a soft insistent mouth descended on him and he had to clutch the fine robes to keep his feet. Strong arms pressed him to a solid body, and this was better than the purring Vincent between his legs -- warm and living and heady, flight without leaving the earth.

A thigh pushed between his, and Potterella let it in, let it flex against him until the taut excitement overwhelmed his dignity. He moaned and rubbed and arched and forgot to worry that the prince might find him shameless. He _was_ shameless, the material that had been so thin against the cold now not thin enough. He felt like one of the whores he sometimes saw on the way to market, and it excited him.

"What you do to me... I'd have you here, now, if I could," the prince murmured against his throat.

"I might muster a protest, but only if you stop kissing me. No -- don't _stop_." Potterella laughed as the prince huffed and pulled at his waist.

"Gardens. Now."

They stumbled back to the castle, keeping to the shadows and the ill-used paths, stopping often so that the prince could kiss him and put his hands inside Potterella's robes, pinching his nipples or dipping below his belt to stroke his hipbones until he could hardly stand on his own rebellious feet.

Drunk on nothing but the prince, Potterella fumbled down the path to the prince's private gardens.

*****

Potterella's fairy godfather (whom we shall now call Sirius Black) knocked back a double shot of whiskey. His godson (who was not really named Potterella, but we'll get to that in a bit) had followed Sirius's advice beautifully, and every eye had been on his slim figure as he took the floor with an artlessness noblemen paid to learn.

Every eye, that is, except one of the royal footmen, who was watching his drink, and Sirius, who was watching the footman.

"You know," said the footman after a while, "the chaperones are meant to watch their charges, not the palace staff."

"Who says I'm not a guest?"

"You haven't looked at the prince once this evening."

"Perhaps I see something I like better."

"Or perhaps," said the footman, never once looking up from his drink (maybe because the drink was more interesting than Sirius, but more likely so that if anyone asked he could truthfully say he hadn't seen Sirius Black in fifteen years), "you'd rather not draw his highness's attention to yourself."

"Perhaps," Sirius admitted. The footman seemed disinclined to call the guards on him, so Sirius signaled the bartender to refill both their glasses. "And where," asked Sirius as he slid down the bar, closer to the footman, "is _your_ chaperone, young man?"

The footman's mouth compressed into a thin, unamused line much like Aunt Petunia was wont to when Potterella undercooked the eggs, but his head tilted so that his neck curved invitingly, and Sirius Black grinned a wolfish grin.

*****

They tumbled through the garden gates as one, and Potterella was glad no one else was about, for if he had seen anyone behaving in public as they were now, he would have been quite shocked and disapproving and just a bit envious.

The prince's hands found every bit of flesh that could make Potterella moan, and touched them all as they kissed their way past rose bushes magically still in bloom. They paused to grind together between tiger lilies and orchids, and fetched up on an ivy-tangled bench beneath a trellis of grape vines, Potterella's robe bunched around his waist as the prince pulled him onto his lap.

The garden felt like a midsummer evening, pleasantly cool against his flushed skin, and he curled into the prince's heat. His head spun with the hungry kisses and demanding hands, the thrill of being exposed to the night air -- anyone could walk by and see his cock jutting shamelessly against the placket of the prince's trousers.

He didn't care. "More!"

A throaty laugh. "Bold as a brass galleon you are," the prince murmured against his collar, and undid his trousers' laces, snaked an arm around Potterella's waist, and pulled until their cocks slid against each other, hard.

Potterella cried out and bucked against the prince -- _James_, surely Potterella could think of him as James now that he was sitting half-naked on the man's lap. "Oh!"

"Like that?" James said, so low and warm in Potterella's ear.

"Yes," Potterella said seriously. "You're very sexy."

James laughed aloud and bit his neck. "I could eat you up. Take off your belt." Potterella did and the prince pushed his robe right off his shoulders and it fell to the ground. James had already started on his own buttons, but got distracted kissing Potterella's nipples until they were so hard and tingly he thought they would burst. Potterella undid some more buttons but then James kissed his ears and it was all he could do to hang on while his body melted.

"Oh, oh, if you do that anymore I'll finish."

"No, I want you," James said. His fingers were already slipping between Potterella's cheeks to stroke the sensitive skin there. "I want you to feel me inside you when you come."

Potterella's breath hitched. "Yes, I want that. I want you to..." It sounded so easy and sexy when his fairy godfather said it. "I want you to _fuck_ me."

A harsh groan, and the prince's fingers were pushing in. They didn't get very far, and everything else rapidly came to a halt.

Potterella sat back a bit. "Are you... Do you know what to do?"

"Hush." The prince bit his lip. "I'm thinking."

Potterella bit the prince's lip too.

"Devilish creature," James gasped and kissed him. "I've got it now." He took out his wand and cast a quick spell, and one of the grape leaves curled into a cone and filled with a thick clear gel.

James dipped his fingers in the gel, and brought them back, cold and gentle, to Potterella's hole. He made a pleased hum, and stroked inside with one slick motion. They clung together like that for a moment, before James started thrusting with slow even strokes.

And then he touched something deep inside that made Potterella jerk forward and then scramble back as fast as he could.

"More! Just there!"

The prince fumbled, but soon touched the same spot. He didn't seem to know what it was any more than Potterella, but he was very amused at the reaction it got, and tried two fingers to see if Potterella would squirm any farther out of his skin.

"I think I can touch that with my cock," he announced, tilting his head as though Potterella had challenged him.

"You must certainly try."

"It might hurt at first."

"I don't care. I'll like it."

"You might not," James said, but he was already slicking his cock with more of the gel.

"I will." He rose to his knees on the bench and inched forward until he was looking down at the prince. "You'll make me."

James kissed the center of his chest, and guided him down.

The pressure was much more than fingers, the blunt head feeling impossibly large, but his own weight carried him past the first surge of pain, and he bit his lip and took the rest of it in a rush, as it was always best to get the worst out of the way.

James, trembling, held Potterella close and stroked his hair. "Does it reach?"

Potterella released a shaky laugh. "Yes," he said, and they stayed like that, James sucking on his earlobes and touching his cock with light curious fingers, until he felt ready to move.

The first withdrawal stung, but sinking back down sparked that whole-body tingle harder than ever. The prince's hands found his hips and guided the jerky rhythm into a smooth gait and, when Potterella demanded still more, he raised his own hips to meet each thrust.

"Look at me." James touched his face. "You're so beautiful."

Potterella felt beautiful. A frightful sweaty mess, but beautiful all the same, with a prince gasping and awed beneath him as they arched together. He couldn't say who came first, only that the warm slickness inside him was the first and last thing he felt before shuddered to stillness in James's arms.

*****

"You're very sticky." The prince kissed Potterella's neck and somehow managed to buckle his belt at the same time. "And salty." Another sucking kiss. "And delicious."

"You're besotted. I taste like sweaty boy." He straightened the prince's collar, feeling like his own silly smile was rather on the besotted side.

"You have come on your chin," the prince whispered, and licked it off.

At that moment, Potterella caught sight of the great clock tower. It was almost midnight. "I'm sorry, I must go."

"Wait," the prince said, clutching his hand. "I don't even know your name!"

Potterella had no name to give him.

"I'm sorry!" He pressed a kiss to the protesting lips and pulled free, not wanting the prince to see him in his torn and sooty linens. He ran for the entrance, dropping all pretense at manners and dashing through the crowd.

On the steps, his godfather caught his arm as he flew past. "Well?" he asked eagerly.

Potterella flashed him a joyous grin. "You were right! He loved my eyes so much we... in the garden... oh, it was incredible!" The clock began to chime, and he pulled away, missing the shocked expression that dropped over his godfather's face.

He ran off into the night, and it wasn't until he reached Privet Drive and settled behind the tool shed to relive the night's memories that he realized he'd lost his ring.

*****

Potterella woke to his aunt's pointed shoe to his ribs. "You might have weeded the garden," was all she said before she let him into the house.

The Dursleys were in a fine mood, Uncle Vernon because they wouldn't have to hold truck with wizards after all as the prince hadn't looked at Dudley once, Aunt Petunia because she had first-hand gossip on the nobility, and Dudley because he'd made full use of the prince's tables.

"The Kensingtons were there -- their son wore puce, can you believe it?"

"And there were six types of trifle. Six!"

"Friends with those Malfoys, aren't they? Shame. Nice normal family otherwise."

"...rabbit pie and Cornish hens stuffed with rice and mushrooms..."

"Yes, and I heard the Malfoys refused their invitation. Imagine that! As if they're too good for royalty. Though it matters little anyway, as the their boy is hardly as nice-looking as the one the prince chose."

Potterella almost dropped the porridge on the table, but he managed to only rattle the teacups as he set it down.

"...salmon baked with this most amazing glaze, Mummy you must get the recipe..."

"True, Petunia, true, but you mustn't forget breeding. Who knows what sort of background this boy has?" Uncle Vernon said from behind his newspaper. "Oh look. It seems the prince searching for the young man. How uncouth, running off like that. If you ask me, he doesn't deserve the prince's attention. Not like our Dudley here."

"...and the ham was so tender it fell right off the bone!"

"Still, he was a lovely young man," said Aunt Petunia, a little dreamily as she forgot herself and served Potterella a bowl of porridge.

Later, after he had cleared the table and washed the dishes and mopped the floor and cleaned the fireplace, Potterella took the day's newspaper on the pretext of shredding it for tinder.

**PRINCE JAMES TO SEARCH FOR MYSTERY LOVE**, said the headlines, and beneath it, right above a photo of an escaped murderer who looked suspiciously like Potterella's fairy godfather, was a blurry picture of a dark-haired boy dashing down the palace steps. He looked a dreadful mess, with his hair in his eyes and his robes all rumpled and hiked up so he wouldn't trip on them. It was too blurry to tell, but Potterella thought the eyeliner had smudged as well.

For the first time in his life, Potterella thought Uncle Vernon might be right. The prince's mystery boy had no breeding. No family, no money, not even a real name.

He crumpled up the paper, and put it in the tinder box.

*****

The press had presented a much tamer version of the morning's events at the palace. In truth, the prince had been set to turn out the entire guard before the King restrained him.

"Think, my son," the King said as the prince paced furiously. "We have cast all manner of locating spells in the past, and none of them has ever worked."

"I _danced_ with him!" James shouted. "I had him in my arms!" He stopped short of saying what else he had done with the young man the papers had dubbed his 'mystery love'.

The queen stoked his hair as he fell still for a moment. "Can we even be sure it was him?"

"No one but one of our line could touch this ring," the prince said, "not even you. Not even Lily."

"Then be sensible," said the King. "If the ring still knows to whom it belongs, then use it to find him, where locating charms have failed."

The prince slowly unclenched his fist from around a plain but elegant ring of ruby and gold. It had cut into his palm. "Take it. Take it around to every house in the kingdom if need be, but find him, please."

The King, who was one of only three people alive who could, took the ring, and left with the queen to arrange a search.

The prince flung himself into a chair and buried his face in his hands. His ever-present footman brought him a strong drink.

"What have I done?" asked the prince into his hands.

The footman, who had a very good idea of what the prince had done, took the prince's hand and curled it around the glass until he took the drink. "Loved him, James. In whatever way, you loved him."

*****

November faded, and with it Potterella put away the silly fantasies of the previous season. From time to time he noticed articles, as the press never seemed to tire of following the prince's search for his unknown beloved, and it made Potterella warm inside to know that after so short a time together someone as handsome and powerful as the prince was still looking for him.

But Potterella was smart enough to realize the prince's obsession was like his own daydreams of family. The picture he built in his head would never match the reality. It was much more sensible to get on with life than be disappointed, as the prince would be disappointed in Potterella if he saw past the magical clothes and eyeliner.

In the real world, there were floors to be scrubbed and laundry to be done.

Potterella did such a good job forgetting that it came as a surprise when the doorbell rang one day early in December, and instead of making him answer it, Aunt Petunia flew into a tizzy and shoved him into his cupboard.

"Dudley! Are you presentable? Come down at once for the prince's man."

Potterella heard the door open and Dudley thundered down the stairs, showering dust all over him, and then he heard a strange man instructing Dudley to try something on, and then a sizzle and a loud cry. The scent of ozone filtered into Potterella's cupboard.

"Well, that's that. Sorry to trouble you," said the prince's man.

"Are you sure he can't try it again?" asked Aunt Petunia.

"I'm sorry, it's not good for his heart. Is there anyone else in the household?"

"No," said Uncle Vernon firmly. "No one."

"Good day then." The front door opened, just as there was a sharp crack, and Potterella's cupboard was suddenly very crowded.

"What was that?" asked the prince's man.

"Nothing, just the house settling!" Uncle Vernon said, much too loudly.

"What are you doing?" Potterella hissed to his godfather, who was taking up more than his share of room.

"Yell, damn you," Sirius hissed back. "Make some fucking noise." To Potterella's horror, he thumped the door.

"Are you certain no one else lives here?"

"No, no, just the three of us, one happy family!"

"But I heard--"

"Mice," said Aunt Petunia.

"_Dead_ mice," added Uncle Vernon as Sirius thumped the door again.

"Stop it," Potterella said, forgetting to whisper.

"Not bloody likely," Sirius said back and drew his wand. "Alohomora!"

The door swung open and out tumbled Potterella, helped along by a shove from his fairy godfather, who conveniently vanished with another crack. "Er," he said to the scowling Dursleys.

"I thought you said there were only three of you," said the prince's man, who as you may have guessed, was the footman, Lupin.

"Him? He's just a houseboy. We've had him since he was a babe," said Uncle Vernon, who was growing quite red. "I assure you, he's never been near the palace."

"Nonetheless, the King's orders are that everyone must try the ring." The footman held out a pillow, fingers well away to the sides, and there in the center was a gold ring with a red stone.

_Potterella's_ ring.

Surely the Dursleys had recognized it, for it had been on his hand all his life until the ball, and still they denied his existence to the prince's man. Potterella's lips thinned.

"So there's where my ring got to," he said loudly, and snatched it up and put it on his finger. "I'd been looking for that for ages. Thanks ever so much." Potterella opened the front door and ushered the spluttering footman out. He slammed the door and leaned back on it, heart pounding.

He looked at the Dursleys.

The Dursleys looked at him.

A long moment passed and then there came another great crack, but instead of Potterella's fairy godfather, the prince himself appeared in the Dursley's living room.

Potterella's mouth went dry at the sight of him. He looked as though he'd just come from a bath, all damp hair and clothes that clung in a way that must be uncomfortable to feel but looked very sexy. All Potterella's thoughts about not being good enough for the prince tripled, but conversely seemed not to matter with the prince standing before him, staring as though he would never look at anyone but Potterella again.

"Harry," the prince whispered, and pulled Potterella into a damp crushing embrace. "Harry, my son."

The Dursleys, Potterella thought as he stared at them over the prince's shoulder, looked every bit as faint as Potterella felt.

*****

Outside, the footman leaned against the carriage in which he'd been trawling around the city for the last two months, and lit a cigarette.

"I told you to start in Little Whinging," said a blond man who was sitting on a low wall and keeping his face hidden behind a week-old newspaper. The newspaper was upside-down.

The footman scowled and pretended he hadn't heard, then flicked his cigarette away and held the door for the prince and his no longer lost son.

*****

The carriage door had barely shut before the prince pulled Harry -- for that is what we must now call Potterella -- onto his lap. Harry's world was still reeling, but he pressed his face to James's neck, breath darting across the stubble-rough skin, and twisted his fingers in the fine robes. Surely this was wrong now that they knew.

But perhaps James hadn't meant it _that_ way, for he went very still when Harry's lips brushed his jaw. Perhaps lap-sitting was something people did with their fathers, not just lovers. Harry wouldn't know, as he'd only had a father for ten minutes, and Dudley was too big to sit in anyone's lap, let alone with Uncle Vernon, who had very little lap to sit on. A tight unpleasant feeling settled in his middle; for all he'd told himself to put away his dreams, having them all come true in such a spectacular and disconcerting manner made him realize he never really had.

Then James sighed and clutched him close, and Harry forgot how to be worried. "I can't believe I've found you."

"Nor can I." He toyed with the prince's collar. "I can't believe we're... I wonder if my fairy godfather knew. He seemed quite determined that I meet you."

"Your fairy godfather?" James abruptly straightened, settling Harry's weight lower on his hips. "Tall fellow? Dark hair, grey eyes, walks like he owns every grain of sand beneath his feet?"

"Yes, that's him."

James fell back against the seat. "I can't believe this."

"You know him?" Harry asked, and James gave him an odd look.

"Who do think made him your godfather? He was a close friend, disgraced son of a noble family, captain of my guard. My father blamed the attack on him and sent him to prison fifteen years ago. I never would have believed Sirius betrayed us, but I saw him kill my cousin Peter with my own eyes."

"He led me to you," Harry said softly, and James kissed him again, and they spoke no more of fairy godfathers that day. The carriage rocked them together, knocking their kisses askew.

They were soft innocent kisses at first, starting on the cheeks and mouth corners, creeping closer to lips as heat flushed through them. All of the questions Harry had went spinning out of his head every time the motion jostled their hips together.

"You're still beautiful," James whispered, pressing his forehead to Harry's.

"I'm not." Harry plucked at his smudged and overlarge shirt. He had no eyeliner to make his eyes pretty, no godfather to throw spare confidence around and curse at him and tell him to suck and pout.

James caught both his hands, then let them go to cup his face. "You are. You have your mother's eyes."

It felt weird to kiss James after that, but he did, James's hands still trembling on his face. And just when he thought he couldn't bear the tightness any longer, James undid Harry's trousers, and then his own, and then they were rocking together -- sloppy, arrhythmic, kiss-filled rocking, and James's hands left his face to clutch at his arse, pull them closer.

"Oh," Harry gasped, and tilted his head back because James seemed intent on sucking on his neck. One strong hand released his arse to plunge down the back of his trousers, fingers sliding on sweat-slick skin to burrow between his cheeks and stroke across his hole. He jerked, and his entire body took up the cry of pleasure, and he came in short rapid bursts all over his father's clean damp shirt.

"Harry, Harry," James moaned, and Harry tried to get his hands between them to help, but James wouldn't leave him enough room and pulled him closer, harder, until another wet heat spread between them. They collapsed against the soft bench, hearts thudding in a tandem gallop.

James stroked his hair, and after a while asked, almost to himself, "What am I to tell my father?"

Harry considered this. "It seems to me that the best thing we can do," he said seriously, "is to not get caught until after you're King."

James laughed, and did something with his wand that cleaned them both up, and they sat very close together, hands entwined, for the rest of the ride home.

*****

Being a prince was nothing like what Harry imagined, had he ever dared imagine himself a prince. It involved a lot of standing and waiting and looking like he was paying attention, and the King and queen both cried over him an embarrassing number of times. The newspapers exploded into a frenzy upon learning the prince's mystery boy was in fact his son, but within a few weeks it became clear no one was going to come forward with tales of incest in the royal gardens, and both princes sighed in relief and then set about making the non-existent charges even more true.

Though he was certain he saw the still-blond Sirius Black in the palace several times, Harry could never get close enough to speak to him, and it vexed him. James did not want to alert the guard, for he knew they would take Black back to Azkaban without question, and the King would hear no arguments on the matter.

James fretted over Sirius's possible presence more than Harry thought necessary, but since the result of the fuss was James sleeping in Harry's room for 'protection', he didn't protest too loudly. He spent his days learning magic, which was fun, and protocol, which was not, and his nights learning the fastest ways to make James lose control and fuck him hard, which was the most fun of all.

On one such night they lay spooned in Harry's bed, back in their nightshirts because James insisted on propriety whenever they weren't directly engaged in _im_propriety. His father's breath was heavy on his neck, but Harry couldn't sleep. He lay watching the moonlight chase shadows, drowsy and sated but unwilling to close his eyes. It occurred to him that one of the shadows moved too quickly, and he half-sat in the bed.

It was a rat.

Harry stared at it. It stared back, whiskers twitching. He could swear its skin was rippling.

The door burst open before Harry could quite realize the rat's skin _was_ changing, and two men rushed in, wands drawn. James snapped awake, his own wand ready, even as the shadows went berserk and a man lunged from where a rat had stood.

"Petrificus totalis!" The shout came from Harry's godfather, who stood in the door beside James's most trusted footman, Remus Lupin.

Harry blinked. Sirius was quite naked and seemed unaware of it, or at least unconcerned. Remus wore only a too-large shirt, one that looked like it might belong to Sirius.

The strange man fell across the bed and then tumbled to the floor, frozen.

"Cousin Peter," James said. "It seems you're not so dead after all." He looked up at the men in to doorway. "Your entrances are getting grander, Padfoot old man."

"Too fucking right," said Sirius, and tried to put his wand away, only to realize he had nowhere to put it.

*****

"It was Peter all along," Sirius was saying to the King and a bevy of guards, jabbing the air and making things sway in a manner Harry found disconcerting. "He let the enemy in, he set me up when he realized Harry was out of his reach. He's been alive all this fucking time. I've been trying to draw him out, but it took Harry's return to drive the goddamn rat into action."

"Why would Peter do such a thing?" asked the King, toying with the tip of his beard. The queen had already offered Black tea and lemon biscuits by the time he arrived, so he felt obliged to sit down and listen to the story. "He adored James."

"Malfoy," Sirius spat. "He'd convinced Peter that if James died without an heir, _he_ would inherit the throne. And of course Malfoy only wanted him to open the gates for the Dark Lord, but Peter believed him. Only Lily's last spell saved Harry and sent him to her sister under Fidelius, with me as his Secret Keeper, so the rat couldn't find him. When I heard about the ball, I was worried Harry might show up here, and draw Peter's attention. So I broke out." Sirius shrugged and lit a cigarette.

"Peter was aiming for both of us," James said quietly. He squeezed Harry's shoulder. "If we'd been found dead, he could have appeared at the palace with a story that he miraculously 'survived' the attack fifteen years ago."

"Well," said the King, "this is what truth potions were invented for. Have a seat, Black. Someone's going to prison tonight. " He paused. "And if you don't put some clothes on, it's going to be you anyway."

"And for Merlin's sake," Remus spoke up for the first time that night, "get rid of that glamour. You make a terrible blond."

*****

Some months later, Prince Harry lay on his silken sheets, making an effort to read while his father nibbled his backside. He had an enormous wardrobe of fine clothing -- more clothes than even Dudley could wear in a year -- but he found himself clothed in nothing but air more often than not, at least when his father was around and no one else was.

Harry smiled to himself and tried to make sense of the line of poetry he'd just read. A sharp bite jumbled the words into nonsense once more.

"Delicious," James mumbled, sucking kisses down Harry's thighs. Harry spread his legs wider, happy to oblige, until the door burst open.

They both went for their wands, but it was only Sirius, covered in white dust, hand over his eyes. "Not looking, not looking!"

"What have you done now?" asked James, and Sirius dropped his hand, then immediately clapped it back over his eyes.

"You're not supposed to speak normally unless you're wearing fucking clothes! Gah. There's been an incident in the kitchens, and I need somewhere to--"

"Hide?" said Harry.

"-- get out of the flour. I mean way. I mean, I'm allergic to flour and I need to get out of its way."

"He means," said Lupin from the doorway, "that there may or may not be a thoroughly inappropriate phrase on Prince Harry's birthday cake, depending on whether or not the bakers can fix it in time."

"It's his birthday present," Sirius said (to the wall, as he still had his eyes covered).

"You haven't actually said what you want for your birthday yet," said James, and Harry smiled up at him.

"I'd like another ring to match the one I have."

"The spellwork is complicated--"

"I _meant_, may I get my nipple pierced?" Harry asked, rolling his eyes, and James swallowed hard.

"I taught you too well," Sirius moaned. "The student has outstripped the master."

"Well," said Lupin, "that's a matter of opinion." Then he seized Sirius and dragged him out as James kissed his son in a most unfatherly manner.

And they didn't live happily ever after, but they lived well, and that was more than enough for the boy once called Potterella.

The End


End file.
